Recently I have had the pleasure of reading the thoughts of a fellow MS warrior; thus revisiting my own relationship with something that has just become another appendage. I've written my story before and admittedly (momentarily) been impressed with my own fortitude and will to move on. Then I look at it again and think, "C'mon, Lisa, it's no big deal."
Learning to walk again (and again) is nothing compared to the terminal cancer patient and his anxious family.
Re-evaluating that mountain of stairs in front of me cannot compare to the three brain surgeries my own brother has survived in two years.
Dragging around a dropped foot while willing spectactors to consider that my uneven gait is not a product of a liquid lunch should be a testimony to the actual wino under the bridge who some how can afford to consume insane amounts of alcohol, while I live from pay check to pay check buying groceries for my family rather than visiting my favorite spirit of choice.
Geoffrey, I hope you don't mind me jumping on your band wagon and sharing a little of my own story. There is no way I could convey my experience in a manner equal to what you have shown me, but the therapy of writing is a good thing.